


Play Me

by athena_crikey



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Broadcasts, Cecil loves Science, City Consciousness, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:05:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8778910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: “You’re saying that the city… talks through you?”Carlos learns more about Cecil's connection to the city, and by extension his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm about a year behind on broadcasts, so this does not take into account any recent revelations.

Carlos is performing the old potato battery experiment when Cecil’s show comes on the radio. He’s been doing the experiment for almost half an hour, and so far a growing pile of potatoes has yet to register a volt on the multimeter. Finely calibrated seizemograms and applied magnetic fields are often foiled by Night Vale; apparently so too are potatoes. 

Carlos has not yet worked up the courage to ask what children in Night Vale take to science fairs. 

In any case, he’s already starting to wipe up the sour-smelling potato juice when the show begins. It often starts with non-sequiturs, some of which occasionally last even into the news, so at first he doesn’t pay much attention to Cecil’s soothing voice directly addressing a singular listener: “This is a story about you.” 

But when the narrative doesn’t stop several minutes, Carlos stops wiping up the pitted and scarred surface of his lab table (somehow even acid stains take on disturbingly twisted shapes, like Dali on paint thinner). The weather comes and goes, and Cecil picks up the story about “You” right where he left off, still in his calmest and most matter-of-fact tone. Carlos feels a shiver trying to build up just at the apex of his spine, and forcibly represses it. This isn’t strange, is hardly even puzzling, and for Night Vale that means it’s not even worth noticing. 

Then he hears the helicopter rotors and gunfire, slicing through the quiet evening. Like a world-renowned orchestra they enter right on Cecil’s cue. 

Carlos snatches his keys off the counter and nearly falls down the stairs on his way to the parking lot; in the distance, a purple cloud is assaulting an apartment building. His engine turns over and brings the radio to life just as Cecil’s listener, whoever he is, does the same. Carlos pulls out onto the empty road, jacket pockets still full of zinc and copper electrodes, and heads for the Community Radio Station.

When he peels into the parking lot, the listener’s fiancée has just stepped into the black car. Carlos shuts his own off, the key nearly jamming in the ignition, and hurries into the station. He sees no one but an intern in the hall – a new one, like always – as he marches to Cecil’s broadcasting booth. The door, as always, is unlocked, and Carlos enters just as Cecil is saying, “Goodnight, Night Vale, goodnight.”

“Cecil?”

Cecil has a headset on, but he swivels around on his ancient chair all the same, unnaturally slowly and smoothly. His eyes, Carlos sees in the gloom of the studio, are glowing the incandescent purple of argon. The glow is already fading, though, like the sear of a bright light on the retina. It’s gone in a second, leaving Carlos unsure whether he really did see it. 

“Carlos?” Cecil blinks, and pulls off his headset. “Carlos!” His face lights up in delayed reaction and he stands, hand outstretched. “What are you here for? Science? A news bulletin? I have some very promising cress growing in my windowsill at the moment, if you’d like to take a look sometime – I managed the full rainbow this year although technically of course blue isn’t really a colour,” he babbles, without taking a breath.

Carlos shakes Cecil’s hand as he speaks and feels that his skin is hot and dry to the touch – he wraps his thumb over the arch of Cecil’s wrist and although it’s not recommended for taking a pulse he can nevertheless feel that Cecil’s heart is racing. 

A moment later, his eyes (now just the ordinary colour, as if they had never been anything else) are rolling up in Cecil’s head. Carlos lunges forward awkwardly and manages to manoeuvre him into a lopsided slump on his chair. Almost as if through infection, Carlos’ own heart is now pounding in his chest.

“Cecil? Cecil?” He kneels in front of the unconscious man and feels the pulse at his neck – slower. Carlos looks around for a phone and tries to remember what to do – today is Tuesday, do you contact 911 by phone or smoke signals, and if the latter does he have anything burnable in his car?

Just as he identifies the phone hidden away behind the dusty soundboard covered in faders and tape, Cecil takes a deep breath and straightens. His eyes open and he blinks a few times. “Carlos?” he tries, cautiously.

“Cecil – do you feel okay? Lightheaded? Dizzy?”

“No – should I?” he asks. And then, suspiciously, “Is this a dream? Because I usually dream of long empty roads and live wires on Tuesdays.” 

“No, it’s not a dream. You just fainted. After reading a … very strange broadcast. I mean, I say reading, but it was all happening live. Like… like a prompter, for a play.”

The suspicion in Cecil’s face smoothes into relief. “Oh, Carlos,” he says, as though Carlos has said something adorably ignorant. “That was just a city broadcast.”

“A city broadcast? But – _you_ do the city broadcasting. And there’s no way – you knew everything that was happening as it was happening. Even if there was, I don’t know, tv cameras around town, you couldn’t –”

“We don’t talk about cameras, Carlos,” interrupts Cecil, in a hushed voice. And then, more normally, “And what I broadcast is technically the citizens’ news and events. Only the city knows what it considers to be its own news and events. Sometimes things happen, and it wants to share them with us. Sometimes it gives out warnings, or curses. Mostly curses. Oh, and once it bought a raffle ticket to the Elementary School Playground Threshing Machine Fundraiser. We didn’t know whose account to use, though, and the City Council wouldn’t ratify it so I ended up having to pay for it.

“You’re saying that the city… talks through you?” Carlos tries to reframe Cecil’s words into ones that make sense. Even he isn’t sure why, anymore. No more than 57% of events on any given day make any kind of sense at all. Cecil nods encouragingly, though, so he goes on. “And do you remember it?”

“No. I usually play back the tapes to find out what I missed. Was it interesting?”

“It was… different. I missed the end, too. I think part of the city caught on fire, though.”

Cecil frowns. “Oh. That would have been an important news bulletin.”

“Most people probably got the message.” The ones who weren’t abducted by the purple cloud, anyway. 

“Would you like to stay and hear it? I can play back the tape.” He looks so hopeful that Carlos doesn’t have the heart to say no. Besides, he just lost consciousness, someone should keep an eye on him for a while, and sadly Carlos doesn’t think he can count on the current studio intern to survive that long. So he unfolds the collapsible stool Cecil indicates and sits down to listen to the end of the story about… someone. 

The truth is, if nothing else, he will never get tired of listening to Cecil’s voice.

\--------------------------------------------------

A few months later, Carlos is sitting at his kitchen table trying to complete the city’s complex and almost completely random Change of Residency forms. He will have been here a year next week, and Night Vale claims you as one of its own after 365 days. Carlos gathers from Cecil that that means reduced leniency on traffic violations (from torture to three month banishment in the secret tunnels), enrollment in the city militia (calling-up to be announced by nonagon chalked on residency door, not to be confused with a decagon, which indicates the City will be spraying for rats), and a status promotion from non-existent to outsider in the eyes of self-righteous jerks like Steve Carlsburg.

As always, the radio is on in the background. Cecil is talking about a change in bus stop locations and its predicted effect on rainfall, when he stops in mid-sentence. There’s a short pause of complete silence that’s just long enough for Carlos to look up from the blank he’s currently filling out (favourite shellfish), and then his voice returns. The mild excitement Cecil displayed at the expected reduction in freak torrential downpours is gone, replaced by a neutral, distanced announcer’s tone: 

“Next week there will be a rain of newts in Hillside, followed by brief bursts of fire. No buffalo will be found in Mission Lights park, so don’t bother looking. Science Day will be on the third Tuesday following Labour Day.” His voice drones out the words with unusual lifelessness, especially when speaking about science. 

There’s another pause, and then Cecil resumes with a more upbeat tone, “and we can expect the change in service to result in only 15% fewer riders being able to reach their destinations, according to City Transit.”

After the broadcast, Carlos phones through to the station. 

“Cecil?”

“Carlos! Did you get those pictures of Khoshekh I sent? Isn’t he the sweetest thing?”

“He’s adorable. But Cecil, what’s this about Science Day?”

“Science Day?” echoes Cecil, sounding intrigued but uncertain. “Is it something you’re proposing to City Council? Because I know a bit about ensuring propitious entrails if you need help preparing for your presentation…”

“No – you announced it just now. On air. Your voice went all funny though, like you were reading from a teleprompter.”

“A what? No – don’t answer that; we’ll act it out at the next round of additions to the Night Vale English Dictionary.” He sounds excited. “But about Science Day, if it was announced just now it must have been a city broadcast. I guess we had better put something together. Do you think you can bring some Science, Carlos?” he asks, as though it were show and tell. 

“I’ll throw something together,” promises Carlos. Then, after a beat, “Will you help?”

“Oh,” says Cecil, sounding breathless. “I would _love_ to.”

\-----------------------------------------------

Science Day goes off with several hitches, this being Night Vale. They include a plague of iguanas, a short shower of Scrabble tiles of the letter W, and the instantaneous disappearance and subsequent reappearance of John Peters (you know, the farmer) wearing an entirely different plaid shirt. 

But all in all Carlos is pleased with the reception of his seminars and presentations, and the interest of his now-fellow citizens. Cecil lends a hand with nearly everything, and frankly although in many instances it would have been simpler without him Carlos can’t find it in him to complain. 

As they’re packing up the liquid nitrogen and amazingly inert potatoes, Cecil turns to him. For a moment his eyes glow a startlingly bright puce, as he stares blindly at Carlos.

“Science Day will be an annual event,” he intones. Nearby other citizens stop to stare, quieting respectfully. Only when the glow fades do they continue on with their routine.

“Cecil?” he asks, cautiously. Cecil blinks and then looks to him, shaking his head as though to clear it. “You said that Science Day would be an annual event,” he explains. Cecil’s long, bookish face lights up.

“Carlos, that’s wonderful! Not only for me – you’re fitting in so well here. I knew you would,” he adds, smiling. 

\-----------------------------------------------

It’s three months later, and Carlos is standing under the blistering desert sun while the moisture in his mouth dries like a sponge in a blast furnace. The rest of Night Vale is there too, divided into two crowds separated by a dented folding table holding a silver chalice that’s tarnished to black. The two crowds can be summarized by two words: the relieved, and the dreading. 

“Remember what I taught you,” murmurs Cecil over his shoulder as they advance slowly towards the table, manned by members of the Sheriff’s Secret Police dressed all in black despite the 105-degree heat. “The three I’s.”

“Identify, Ignite, Imitate,” repeats Carlos, miserably. 

Ahead of them, townspeople reach into the chalice, covered with a square piece of black velvet, and pull out pieces of paper. White. White. White. 

“How many –” begins Carlos, and is interrupted by Cecil before he can finish.

“It changes every draw. Depends on the wolf population. Sometimes one or two, occasionally four or five.”

Big Rico – white. Old Lady Josie – white. Steve Calsburg – white (Cecil foams a little). 

Then it’s Cecil, reaching smoothly into the chalice like he’s done this hundreds of times – because he _has_ , they all have, and how can they stand it? 

White. 

Carlos gives a sigh of relief, feels it pumping cold and cooling through his veins. The man in the black suit and sunglasses beside the table gestures to him. Cecil’s stopped on the other side of the table to watch, arms loose by his side but eyes sharp. Carlos suddenly feels that he can taste his adrenaline – it’s tart and gritty like tannin, coating his teeth and tongue. He pushes his hand past the soft velvet cover, fingers brushing over a sea of papers, and selects one. He pulls it out with his eyes closed, but the hisses from behind him tell him its colour anyway.

Purple.

Purple. 

Purple.

Carlos finally tears his eyes away from the tiny strip of paper – his failed litmus test, his death warrant – to Cecil’s eyes. And sees purple there, too. 

“The scientist will live,” announces Cecil, as though he were speaking of anyone of the townspeople and not his lover. “He will continue his search to understand us, his mission to bring knowledge to our city.” He reaches across the table, takes the purple slip from Carlos’ unprotesting hands, and shreds it to fall like purple snow onto the cracked, parched earth below. “He is mine.”

If anyone is in any doubt as to who Carlos’ possessor is, they do not voice it. Cecil’s eyes fade from magenta to their usual pigmentation, and he sways a little as though to an inner beat. He doesn’t fall, though, instead turns to look from Carlos to the paper scraps littering the ground to the Secret Police, watching unmovingly. 

“Next,” says the nearest police officer, as though nothing had happened. Cecil steps over to take Carlos’ hand and pull him away from the scene of his near-doom.

“What just happened?” Cecil whispers, as they join the crowd and receive hugs from Janice. 

“You spoke up for me. I mean – the city spoke up for me. Through you.” Is he dating Night Vale? He doesn’t think so, but sometimes when he hears Cecil’s smooth voice through the radio falling over him like a comforting blanket, it does seem like there’s something more to it than one man speaking. That his voice holds a promise of something… bigger. More. Cecil, he thinks, is more than a mouthpiece. And, as he feels more than sees the citizens of Night Vale give the two of them space without judgement for his narrow escape, he realises he’s not the only one who knows it. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

That night as they lie in bed listing to the wind scrape against the mandatory non-functioning weathervane on Cecil’s roof, just them and the darkness and the seven secret microphones.

“The city seems to think I’m important,” says Carlos slowly, staring up at the darkened ceiling.

“It’s not the only one,” replies Cecil meaningfully.

“But what could it want from me?”

“Carlos,” says Cecil, in the voice that implies he’s being silly, “I’m sure it wants everything about you – from your hair to your science.”

“It’s not really _my_ sci –”

“Your scientificness, then.” Cecil is undaunted, spinning up a new word out of nowhere. Carlos can imagine the sheen of his eyes, the soft line of his mouth as he smiles. Science always makes Cecil smile. 

“What if it wants what you want?” he asks, tracing his fingers down the long line of Cecil’s forearm. He can visualise the tattoos there clearly, eldritch lines intertwined into a thing that’s half beauty, half terror. 

“How could the city want a man?” asks Cecil, scoffing. He takes Carlos’ hand in his, squeezes. 

“Maybe the city is like you; has wants and needs too.” It’s a huge hypothesis, one that would require years, _decades_ of testing. But he believes Cecil when he says the city speaks through him, and that’s the first step on this journey. 

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe… to be loved?” suggests Carlos, raising Cecil’s hand to press his lips to Cecil’s knuckles. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Of course they have. It’s already Saturday,” returns Cecil, drowsily. Carlos smiles to himself, and snuggles down beside the voice of Night Vale. 

Tomorrow he can begin formulating his hypothesis. For now, he gives himself over to sleep.

END


End file.
